Killing the Other Guy
by wackywhateleys
Summary: It was simple. The other guy needed to go. Banner was the only person who could do it. (Oneshot.)


This couldn't go on any longer.

Banner tapped the gun with his finger. It lay there, innocuously, on the kitchen table; somehow its presence made the whole room seem smaller, darker, like death was already looming there. The gun had been there for two days. Loaded, in perfect condition, just missing the pressure of his finger on the trigger so it could go off. Put a bullet in his brain.

It was simple. The other guy needed to go. Banner was the only person who could do it.

Maybe he could get himself to do it if he had a drink.

He poured himself a cheap beer, his heart pounding in his ears. His hands shook. _Careful, Banner, careful._ Don't let it take control.

He couldn't actually follow through, could he? He couldn't shoot himself. No, don't think that way. You're not shooting yourself. You're shooting It. It needed to be shot. Because as long as It was around, Banner was the most dangerous thing he had ever worked with. No unstable element could split a skull, slam a battered body into a wall over and over again with a sickening, steady—

If he went Hulk in the house there wouldn't be a house. _Calm down, Banner, take a cold shower, breathe._ Coping techniques. He'd never be allowed to get excited again.

Since the accident he had tried to think over his options—tried, but he was always going mad. At first it seemed every minute his brain was being attacked, consumed by savage rage. They'd had to contain him. A locked room, a prison cell, a concrete coffin with walls fifteen feet thick—every time he broke out he was put somewhere worse. And he hadn't even wanted to break out. That was the other guy, always the other guy. Banner had wanted so desperately to cooperate with them, but cooperating was hard when the whole thing pissed you off so damn much. Of course being doused with gamma rays wouldn't kill him like it would any decent human being. Nah, other people get put out of their misery, he just turns into a giant fucking green rage monster. As if he hadn't had enough to deal with already.

It made him tired, and no amount of sleep or drink or drugs would fix him anymore. If he went through with this, he'd never have to wake up. _It_ would never have to wake up. Now that would be a load off of everyone's shoulders, wouldn't it?

Ha. Maybe someone would even miss him.

As if.

Banner drained his drink and spread a white towel over the dirty kitchen floor, in the futile hope that it would catch most of the blood and brains. This would be his last, littlest mess. They would appreciate that. The idea came to him to write a note explaining why he had done it, but no, it was easy for anyone to guess. No need to bother.

He slowly paraded himself through his little house, silently saying goodbye to everything, not out of sentimentality, but just because he wanted one last look at what he had gained. Life had given him a PhD in experimental physics, a couple of prestigious awards, and this anonymous little house. It was an empty place; he had been the only person who had ever lived in it, before the other guy moved in. Blowing his brains out in front of the fridge might decrease the property value, but that wasn't his problem.

The stars were outside. He stood on the front steps and looked at them. Now those he'd always liked. A little smile forced its way onto his face just thinking of all the light-years that spread out before his eyes, all the millions or billions of secrets still waiting to be uncovered. Not by him, though; he'd leave it to someone else. He'd done his bit. If anyone was angry with him for giving up on it, they could direct their complaints elsewhere. He wouldn't be around.

Banner picked up the gun when he came back indoors. It was heavy and cool, and it felt right in his hand. He lay down on the kitchen floor. _Can't do it like this._ He shifted his weight, sat up. But then the towel wouldn't be able to catch—

_Fuck the towel._ He opened his mouth and stuck the muzzle of the gun in. It was big and awkward and vied for space with his teeth and tongue; the taste of metal was revolting. A last wave of frustration surged through him. _My messes are not my problem anymore._ He pulled hard on the trigger.

He awoke, in the wreckage of his own empty house. A cold wind was blowing. He felt it on his naked skin.

The tang of metal was still in his mouth, but he was unharmed, and completely alive. A few yards away the gun was gleaming in the starlight, crumpled into a tiny ball. The roof of the house was gone and so were most of the walls; all of the worldly possessions he had said goodbye to who-knows-how-long-ago were scattered and smashed.

_No. No no no no no._

His hand sought out and found some tattered article of his clothing, and he stumbled to his feet, feeling sore all over; even in the back of his throat. _The back of the throat…?_ He stuck his hand in his mouth but gagged before he could reach it. Anyway, his eyes had already found the evidence his hand couldn't: the bullet he had fired, lodged far in the floor, at the bottom of a deep bore.

_Fuck you, Hulk. _

He'd spat it out. Banner had fired a bullet inside his mouth and that _thing_ had spat it out, in the mere split second before it reached his brain. Then he'd destroyed everything and hadn't even had the decency to leave the gun so Banner could go for a second try.

It didn't look like he would get a second try, though. Banner imagined the monster surviving this, surviving everything he could ever attempt.

He imagined a savage, triumphant grin spreading across its face.

He imagined a long, impervious future where he was watched by federal eyes wherever he went, where he could never feel angry or afraid or excited without an entourage of soldiers to restrain him, where poisonous whispers would plague his bright career for the rest of his cursed life and he would always, always be asked in hushed tones if he was feeling alright, if he needed to excuse himself, if he felt as if he could lose control…

That future started at morning.

And the sun was rising.

Sirens wailed in the distance. They were coming back again.


End file.
